


who could ask to be unbroken (or be brave again)

by lincyclopedia



Series: Samwell Men's Harmonies (the a cappella AU) [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Coming Out, Crying, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, M/M, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Year 1 (Check Please!)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/pseuds/lincyclopedia
Summary: The third installment in mya cappella AU. Jack’s junior year at Samwell, SMH adds three new singers, including a baritone named Eric whose classical vocal training is more of a liability than an asset. Somewhere along the way, Jack falls for him.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: Samwell Men's Harmonies (the a cappella AU) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049012
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	who could ask to be unbroken (or be brave again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlasTheMayor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlasTheMayor/gifts).



> 1.) This fic wouldn’t exist without the musical expertise of [OrSaiKellieLonore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrSaiKellieLonore) and the enthusiastic prompting of [AtlasTheMayor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlasTheMayor). Big thanks to you both. 
> 
> 2.) In case you haven’t read the previous two fics in the series, what you need to know is that SMH in this ’verse is an a cappella group (formerly known as Samwell Men’s Harmonies but now open to anyone who can sing tenor or bass, or beatbox, regardless of gender identity). During the 2012-2013 school year, Jack was president of SMH and Lardo, who was a first-year, came out as nonbinary; Lardo, Shitty, Jack, Justin, and Adam also all came out to each other as bisexual. Lardo wanted a nickname so they could stop going by Larissa, and Shitty took a nickname in solidarity (and because he hated his name), but Jack, Justin, Adam, and John don’t have nicknames. 
> 
> 3.) This is an AU, so y’all are probably going to roll with my changes in characterization, but it’s the sort of thing I’ve been flamed for before, so I’ll spell this out: the characters are different in this ’verse than they are in canon—especially Jack. This is a Jack who no longer plays hockey, who has no interest in playing in the NHL, and who came out to his friends as a sophomore. I tried to parallel canon in a number of ways (Eric’s trouble with checking and subsequent checking clinics especially), but these characters have some fundamental differences from canon as well. Please know that going in.

Jack spends the summer before his junior year interning at a history museum in Boston and living at the house his parents bought for him and his friends. It’s an old sorority house—Jack thinks it belonged to a now-defunct sorority called Theta Alpha Theta or something, and rumors still make their way around Samwell every now and then that a couple of the sorority sisters died somehow during a rush event gone wrong, though Alicia says that when she was at Samwell Theta Alpha Theta was active, thriving, and known for throwing epic ragers (which, when Jack thinks about it, might explain the accidental deaths). In any event, the house hasn’t been inhabited in years and is definitely in need of some TLC. Jack isn’t the handiest guy, having grown up with parents who had a whole staff, but he watches YouTube tutorials and tries his best . . . and then he calls in actual repair people for the stuff he can’t manage on his own. 

While he’s in the house alone on summer evenings, he daydreams about what it’s going to be like to live with his friends. About studying together at the kitchen table or in the living room. About stargazing with Shitty from that one spot on the roof. About watching documentaries together on the TV he’s bought for the living room. Jack even buys a whole bunch of board games from the family-owned game and comic shop in Samwell and puts them all in the living room cabinet. 

And then his friends show up a couple days before first semester is going to start, and it’s chaos. Adam is loud, much louder than Jack noticed when they only spent a few hours per week together. Justin is neurotic and thinks the house is haunted. Shitty has no concept of personal space. And John is deeply, deeply weird, mumbling about how the protagonist is about to show up and how he shouldn’t break the fourth wall too often. 

So living with his friends isn’t quite what Jack imagined it would be. Shitty basically wears nothing but boxers in the house, and Adam gets so mad at Jack for building a sheep empire in Settlers of Catan that he flips the board, leading John, Shitty, and Justin to ban board games before Jack and Adam’s bickering can become a full-blown screaming match. But there’s also this: Shitty coming to Jack’s room and calming Jack down when Jack has his annual panic attack over syllabi. Justin in the kitchen brewing coffee first thing in the morning. Adam bringing his keyboard into the living room for impromptu jam sessions. John popping popcorn on the stove before the five of them watch a movie. 

Meanwhile, Jack puts flyers up in the music building like he did at the start of last year, only this time they say, “SMH (tenor-bass a cappella group).” He knows he fucked up last year with Lardo, and he wants to do better. And then come the auditions. 

Jack has Shitty and John sit in on auditions with him. It’s probably just because most of the people auditioning are 18-year-olds fresh out of high school and Jack is even further from that age than he was last year, but he’s really disappointed with most of the auditions he hears. They just really, honestly can’t sing. Auditions are fairly informal—people fill out a form stating their name, phone number, year at Samwell, pronouns (those are new to the form this year), voice part, other schedule commitments, and singing experience, and then they sing any song they want (without accompaniment, both for the sake of simplicity and because SMH is an a cappella group). Most people pick pop music and completely butcher it. One dude starts singing “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, and Shitty yells at him to leave the room before he’s even gotten two lines in, so that’s the end of that audition. (The guy’s voice was way too raspy anyway.) A couple of guys—Oliver O'Meara and Pacer Wicks—do a pretty decent job of singing “Latch” by Sam Smith and “Royals” by Lorde, respectively. 

And then some Southerner named Eric Bittle comes in and sings a fucking _aria_. Okay, so it’s technically an arietta. Whatever. “Nel cor più non mi sento” by Giovanni Paisiello is not in the same universe of songs as “Latch” and “Royals” and “Blurred Lines.” And Jack takes voice lessons and sings in choir in addition to SMH; he knows art songs and arias and all that. But who the fuck would use Paisiello _to audition for a collegiate a cappella group_? 

Jack glances down at the form Eric filled out and gets an answer to his own question: someone who’s sung in a youth chorus at the Atlanta Opera, apparently. 

Jack has to hand it to him—the dude has the best tone color Jack’s heard all day, and he’s the fourteenth and final person to audition. The right amount of vibrato. Crisp diction. It’s a very technically sound performance. 

That doesn’t stop Jack from turning to Shitty when Eric finishes singing to exchange a significant glance. Shitty unsubtly mouths, “What the fuck?”

Jack lifts one shoulder in a hopefully more-subtle shrug before turning to Eric and saying, “That was very impressive, but you do realize this is an a cappella group you’re auditioning for, don’t you?”

“Yes?” Eric sounds confused. 

“Do you listen to a cappella music?” John asks. 

“Yes?” Eric says again. 

“Like what?” Shitty asks, looking suspicious. 

“My favorite is Cantus, up in Minnesota,” Eric says, sounding more confident now. 

“Right on!” cheers John. Chuckling a bit, he adds, “I’m from Minnesota and Cantus is beyond ’swawesome. But that’s not quite the kind of singing that SMH does.” 

“What do you mean?” Eric asks. 

“Cantus is very choral,” John explains. “Collegiate a cappella tends to be more focused on pop covers, whereas if I recall correctly Cantus does a lot of sacred music and other slower stuff.” 

“Oh,” says Eric. “Well, I do love pop music!” 

Jack doesn’t quite know what to make of that. He likes what he sings for SMH, but just listening to pop music, like on the radio or on YouTube or whatever? He’s never seen the appeal. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that the guy can sing. “Well, I’ll be honest,” he says. “You have the best voice I’ve heard all day, but you can’t sing an arietta for your callback. If you can find a pop song to sing, you’ve got a callback. Those are three days from now, back in this room.” 

“I’ll be here,” Eric says. 

Sure enough, three days later, Eric shows up, along with Pacer Wicks and Oliver O’Meara. Pacer and Oliver reprise the songs they sang at their auditions and muddle through their sight-reading, tonal memory, and range checks to Jack’s approximate satisfaction. Pacer’s a bass and Oliver is a tenor, which is good—SMH needs one of each, as well as a baritone. Given Eric said on his audition form that he sings baritone, this could work out really well. 

And then Eric sings “Halo,” using exactly the same tone color and diction he’d used at his first audition. It’s bizarre. He makes Beyonce sound like an art song. Jack almost tells him to leave without finishing the callback, because there’s no way Eric’s going to be able to blend with SMH if he keeps sounding like that, but John beckons Eric to the piano and asks him to sight-read, so Jack sighs quietly and continues the audition. Eric completes sight-reading and tonal memory almost perfectly and has a pretty good range, but he doesn’t seem to modulate his tone at all. 

Never has Jack been so relieved that SMH has a policy of posting a roster rather than telling people whether they’re in or not at callbacks. He doesn’t know what to do. When Eric leaves the room, he says to Shitty and John, “Okay, so Oliver and Pacer are in. They sing decently and we need people on those parts. But what about Eric?”

“I don’t know, brah,” says Shitty. “Like, obviously he’s good at singing, but what he can do and what we do aren’t necessarily the same thing.” 

“I think we should let him in. It would be good for the narrative,” John says. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Jack asks. He’s usually more patient with John’s idiosyncrasies, but it’s been a long day and he already has way more homework than anyone should less than a week into the semester, and Eric’s bizarre Beyonce performance doesn’t bode well for anything. 

“It would be good for your character development. I mean”—John scratches the back of his neck—“it would be good for you. As a person. Developing character. And as a music major. To learn how to work with someone who has trouble modulating vocal tone and stuff. Besides, we need a baritone and we didn’t hear any better ones.” 

“I don’t buy most of that,” says Jack, “but we do need a baritone. I guess we let him in?”

“If you’re sure,” says Shitty. 

So Jack posts the roster the next day, and the following week they have their first rehearsal. 

It’s the worst SMH rehearsal in Jack’s memory. 

Eric arrives earlier than Jack, armed with pie for some unknown reason, and some people eat the pie before rehearsal, and of course the sugar totally messes with their voices, but that’s not the main problem.

The main problem is that Eric’s loud. He has this clear, ringing voice that’s indisputably classically trained, and it doesn’t blend with anyone else’s pop-y tone at all. Pacer and Oliver are having some trouble with sight-reading at tempo, which Jack remembers being a thing that Lardo and Justin struggled with last year, but that’s to be expected with first-years who don’t have a ton of singing experience. Jack can give them tips to deal with that—mostly advising them to form their own group for mini-rehearsals or to see if they can join Lardo, Adam, and Justin. Eric, on the other hand, is sight-reading well, and it seems like his problem won’t be solved so easily. 

At first, Jack tries just suggesting that Eric modulate his tone. He tries to use voice lesson-y words when making his suggestions—straight tone with bright tone color; not so dark; ease up on the consonants. It seems like Eric’s trying to do as he’s told, but his tone doesn’t change much. Jack can tell that most of the rest of the group is confused and annoyed by the way Eric isn’t blending, and Eric seems embarrassed by the individual attention. 

When the rehearsal ends, Jack follows Lardo out of the practice room and quietly asks, “Do you think you could invite Eric to mini-rehearsals?”

Lardo shakes their head. “I’m gonna talk to Justin and Adam about inviting Pacer and Oliver, since those two seem like they need extra rehearsal time, but I don’t think that’s what Eric needs.” 

John somehow appears behind Jack and agrees: “Yeah, Eric needs specific advice that Lardo, Justin, and Adam aren’t likely to be able to provide. I think you know you’re the best person to teach him.” 

“Why?” Jack demands. “Is this what you were thinking when you said letting Eric into SMH would help me ‘develop character’?”

John sighs. “You know we needed a baritone. You’re also a baritone, and you’re the only music major in SMH. Most of us don’t even take voice lessons. You’re way better positioned to help Eric than anyone else is, and you know it.” 

Jack sighs. “Fine.” 

So Jack texts Eric and asks if he can meet privately to practice for SMH. 

Luckily, Jack has voice lessons on Fridays right before lunch this year, which he’s been worried will feel like a lot, given that SMH rehearsals are Thursday nights and his voice will never be as rested as he’d like it to be when his teacher hears him, but right now it’s a good thing, because he needs advice. When he shows up for his voice lesson, his voice professor, Dr. Ellerbee, asks how he’s doing, like he has at the beginning of every voice lesson Jack has had for over two years now. Jack crashes through the attempt at small talk, replying, “I’m okay, but I kind of really need help with something and I’m hoping you might know what to do.” 

“What is it, Jack?” asks Dr. Ellerbee. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” says Jack, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know I’m president of SMH, right?”

“Yes. Even if you didn’t bring it up from time to time, I do stay abreast of what happens in the music department.” 

“Right,” says Jack. He clears his throat. “So, we just added three new singers, all of them first-years, and two of them are fitting in pretty well—I mean, they need some more practice, but they’ll get it; I’m not worried about them—and then there’s one who’s clearly really classically trained and can’t seem to modulate his tone at all. He sounds like he’s singing an art song at all times. I think he’s used to being in large choirs full of powerful voices where it hasn’t mattered so much that he’s loud, especially since his tone is closer to choral than it is to pop, so blending hasn’t been as big of an issue for him before, but it’s definitely a big issue right now. And I’m wondering how to teach him how to use a more pop-y tone.” 

“Did he sound like this at his audition?” Dr. Ellerbee asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Then why did you let him join SMH?”

Jack sighs. “We needed a baritone and didn’t have other great options. Also, John said it would be a good idea. He said something about me developing as a character, actually. The point is, we functionally have a budding opera singer in our a cappella group now, and it’s my job as president and as the resident music major to figure out how to deal with it and teach him how to sing differently.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” says Dr. Ellerbee. “I’ll lend you a book on vocal anatomy and pedagogy, because those things can get complicated and it’ll probably be best for you to take some time to absorb the information and really look at the diagrams and stuff. I’ll lend you a warmup book, too—putting this singer through warmups is probably going to be key to whatever you do. My quick-and-dirty suggestions would be to see if you can get him to feel a buzzy feeling in his mask and stop feeling the vibrations so much in his throat, and to have him sing on an ‘ee’ before trying other vowel sounds. That’s just scratching the surface, though. I’ll point out other things that we do that will be applicable as they come up in our lessons, because obviously your lessons are always a matter of vocal training and pedagogy.” 

“Okay, thanks,” says Jack, biting back a groan at the prospect of more reading. His classes already assign so much. 

After the lesson, Dr. Ellerbee takes Jack back to his office and lends him the books he’d mentioned, and, over the next few days, Jack makes time to look through the vocal pedagogy and anatomy book. It’s interesting to learn which parts of his face and head and chest are involved in making which types of sounds, and he mentally connects some dots that he’d never quite managed to connect in the past three years of taking voice lessons. It’s time consuming and therefore stressful, but SMH is a huge part of his life and he’s not going to neglect his duties to the group even if he does wish that Eric could just manage to have normal first-year problems like all the other first-years Jack has ever sung with. 

Eric and Jack’s first private rehearsal is the following Tuesday at 3 p.m. They meet in the lobby of the music building. This time, Eric is bearing a Tupperware full of cookies, which he hands to Jack with a cheery “I thought you might like something sweet!” 

Jack glares at him. “Eating sugar right before singing is a terrible idea.” 

“I know,” says Eric, “and I swear I meant to save the pie for after rehearsal last Thursday, but Adam saw it and there was no stopping him from digging in right then and there. With his _hands_.” 

Adam had been almost done with his piece of pie when Jack had arrived in the room, and Jack had assumed that he’d started with a fork and had just picked up the last bite. Huh. Jack decides he shouldn’t think much more about this because otherwise it’s going to be hard to avoid another yelling match with Adam. 

“Adam’s like that,” Jack sighs. “Don’t bring sweets again, because it’ll go exactly the same way.” 

Eric frowns. “Jack Zimmermann, are you suggesting I start showing up places _empty-handed_?”

“Yes?” says Jack. “It’s what the rest of us do.” 

“Y’all aren’t from the South, though,” says Eric. “I can’t just—you aren’t _seriously_ suggesting that I stop baking for people and try to be more like y’all Yankees?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t bake for people,” Jack says, feeling like this conversation has escaped his control. “I’m saying you shouldn’t bring sweets to rehearsals. Or performances. Or other occasions that involve singing.” Jack looks down at the Tupperware of cookies in his hands. “Where did you bake these, anyway? I didn’t think first-years could live off-campus.” 

“My dorm building has a kitchen on the ground floor. The oven is pretty finicky, and it always stinks in there because people mostly just come in to use the microwave for easy mac or ramen, both of which smell terrible, but it’s not like I’d let any of that stop me from baking.” 

Jack has no idea what to do with that information, so he just shakes his head and says, “Let’s get a practice room.” 

They find a vacant room and set down their things. Jack gets out the warmup book Dr. Ellerbee lent him and sits down at the piano. “Now,” says Jack. “Before we start, you know why we’re here, right?”

“Because you don’t think I’m good enough for SMH,” Eric mumbles, not meeting Jack’s eyes. 

Shit. Jack sighs. “That’s not it,” he says. “It’s not about being good enough. It’s—you have a very impressive skill set, Eric. It just doesn’t match up perfectly with what SMH does. Your tone is very choral, bordering on operatic. You’re good at what you do. That’s not why we’re here. We’re here because the group you auditioned for uses a different skill set than the skill set you have. Which is fine. It just means you need to learn to do something new. And _that’s_ why we’re here.” 

“If you say so,” Eric mutters, still not looking at him. 

Jack knows he should probably continue trying to be encouraging, but honestly he doesn’t have time for this. “I do say so. I mean, believe what you want, but I’m telling the truth.” Without waiting for Eric’s response, he plays an arpeggio, missing Adam and Lardo as he does so. Jack is a music major, so of course he’s got a decent grip on the piano, but he doesn’t really enjoy having to play while running a rehearsal, and he’s never really had to because Adam and Lardo have always played warmups and parts for as long as he’s been president of SMH. Jack sings the arpeggio on an “ee” sound and then tells Eric, “Can you repeat that?”

Jack has literally never heard such a dark tone on an “ee” before. 

“Has anyone ever referenced the mask before, when talking to you about singing?” Jack asks when Eric has finished the arpeggio. 

Eric frowns. “Maybe? I’m not sure.” 

“Okay,” says Jack. “The mask is basically the resonant area of your face, like your nasal cavities and stuff. It’s about as far forward as sound can resonate in your body, internally. I want you to try to sing forward into the mask.” 

Eric looks horrified. “You want me to sound _nasally_?”

Jack shakes his head. “Not nasally. There’s a lot of resonant space in the mask, not just your nose. But you’re so far from sounding nasally that shooting in that direction might not actually be the worst idea for you, in the short term. Your tone color is really, really dark right now, and I’m trying to brighten it. Nasally would be too bright, but you’re so far away from that right now that maybe trying to get there would land you in the mask.” 

“But everyone’s always told the choirs I was in to try to have a darker tone.” 

“Because those were _choirs_ ,” Jack replies. “Choirs generally shoot for a darker tone than a cappella groups do, and kids tend to have a pretty bright tone, so directors tend to tell youth choirs to try to darken their tone. You’re doing pretty much exactly what a choral singer should do, but SMH _isn’t a choir_. Like I said, that’s why we’re here. Now, can you try to sing into the mask?”

Eric nods, so Jack plays the arpeggio again and Eric sings along. Jack isn’t sure if this sounds any different than the first time.

“Did that feel different?” Jack asks Eric. 

“I guess not?” says Eric. “I don’t know how to change where I feel my voice resonating.” 

Jack thinks about everything his voice teachers have ever had him do and, after a few seconds, he remembers something his old voice teacher Pierre tried the very first time he asked about tone color. “Try plugging your nose.” 

“What?” says Eric. 

“Plug your nose,” Jack repeats. “It’ll change where your voice resonates. Obviously that’s not a long-term solution, but it might help you feel what I’m talking about, and then you can try to apply it when singing normally.” 

“Seriously?” 

Jack crosses his arms. “Do you want to be part of SMH or not?” 

Eric doesn’t reply. 

“Look,” says Jack. “I’m not a voice teacher and I can’t promise that everything I ask you to do is going to work—actually, I probably couldn’t promise that even if I _were_ a voice teacher. But I am a music major, and I’m talking with my voice teacher about how to teach you. I have _some_ idea of what I’m talking about. And I want you to be in SMH, because you have a good voice and also we need another baritone. So. Please at least try to do what I’m asking of you.” 

“I sang tenor in high school,” Eric says, instead of plugging his nose. “Not with the youth chorus of the Atlanta Opera, but at school. There wasn’t anyone else who could hit the notes and was willing to produce basically any sound at all, so I was more or less the whole tenor section even though by my junior year I knew that I wasn’t really a tenor in the first place.” 

“That explains a lot,” says Jack before he can stop himself. 

Now it’s Eric’s turn to cross his arms. “What do you mean?”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, searching for tact he’s not sure he possesses. “You’re, um, kind of loud? And not necessarily the best at blending? But if you were trying to sing for an entire section, especially against probably a whole bunch of sopranos and altos, it makes sense that you would need to be loud, and that you wouldn’t have a whole lot of practice blending.” 

Eric glares at Jack. 

Jack puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll stop with the commentary. Just plug your nose. Please.” 

Eric glares for another second or two and then plugs his nose. Jack plays another arpeggio and Eric sings along. It sounds sufficiently different from before that Jack goes up half a step and plays another arpeggio. He does this several more times, until he feels like he might be pushing the top end of Eric’s range, and then stops. Eric lets go of his nose, hand falling to his side.

“So,” says Jack. “Did you feel like your voice was resonating more in your face?”

“Yeah,” Eric admits grudgingly. 

“Do you think you can capture that feeling without plugging your nose?”

“Maybe,” says Eric. 

“Let’s try,” says Jack. 

Eric’s tone reverts to something a bit darker now that he’s not plugging his nose, but it’s certainly brighter than it was when they started. Jack decides to consider that a win. He takes Eric through a few more warmups and then has him try the baritone part of one of the songs SMH is doing this year. They sing it together, and Jack stops Eric a few times to try to get him to blend better. He’s not quite sure how to describe what’s necessary for blending, but he at least gets Eric to stop singing quite so loudly. 

After 45 minutes, Jack decides it probably isn’t in the best interest of his voice or Eric’s to continue, so he stops and thanks Eric for meeting him. Eric mumbles his thanks, seeming frustrated, and they exit the practice room and walk off in opposite directions. 

Thursday’s rehearsal is better than the previous week’s, but still not great, from a standpoint of Eric blending with everyone else. Pacer and Oliver seem to have benefited from their first mini-rehearsal with Justin, Adam, and Lardo, though they’re still floundering somewhat. All in all, it’s less of a disaster than last week, but all three of the first-years clearly still need help. 

On Friday, Jack tells Dr. Ellerbee what happened when he met up with Eric. “I don’t want him to get so angry or frustrated that he quits,” Jack concludes, “but I also need him to do better.”

“So this is a matter of social skills, as much as it’s a matter of vocal pedagogy,” says Dr. Ellerbee. 

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jack admits, “but yeah, I think you’re right.” He sighs. “And we know social skills aren’t my strong suit. Ugh.” 

“Well, pedagogy is largely social,” Dr. Ellerbee replies. “Like, if you’re going to actually teach someone something, it works best if you at the very least sort of get along with them. I know you’re not a music ed major, but it’s still good for you to get practice working with people, since that’s something nearly all jobs require one way or another.”

Jack tilts his head back and groans. 

When Jack stops looking at the ceiling, he sees Dr. Ellerbee giving him an unimpressed look. “Do you want my help with pedagogy or not? Because you have your own repertoire to learn, and I don’t feel like listening to you whine for a whole lesson.” 

Jack takes a calming breath and then says, “Pedagogy help, please.” 

Dr. Ellerbee nods. “Okay. Having Eric plug his nose was a good idea, and I should have thought of that. Another thing you can try is having him touch or tap his forehead. He should feel a buzzing there if he’s singing with the tone you want. You could demonstrate and have him touch your forehead, if that wouldn’t be too weird. Also, see if humming helps.” 

Jack nods. “Thanks.”

So the following Tuesday Jack asks Eric to try humming his warmups. This seems to help, but Eric’s tone darkens again when he starts singing rather than humming, so Jack demonstrates using a bright tone and touches his own forehead to check if he can feel the buzzing. It’s faint but present, so Jack tells Eric to come over and touch Jack’s forehead while Jack sings to feel the buzzing. 

Eric looks nervous, so Jack does his best to look inviting rather than threatening and says, “Come on. Just touch my forehead. I know it’s kind of weird but it’s not, like, _that_ weird.” 

Eric fidgets, looking at the floor. 

Jack takes a guess as to what this is about. “I’m not hitting on you, I promise. I literally just want to help you figure out how to sing in a way that will blend with the rest of SMH.” 

Eric looks up and gives Jack a surprisingly watery smile. “No homo, huh?”

Jack frowns. “This is Samwell. I’m bisexual. Whatever you were used to in high school, we don’t do that here.”

Eric drops to the floor. Faintly, he says, “Oh my God.” 

“Eric?” says Jack tentatively. “I know you’re from the South, and you might not be used to being around out queer people, but I promise we’re just like you and you don’t need to be, like, afraid of—” 

“Jack,” Eric interrupts, and over his drawn-up knees Jack can see tears running down Eric’s cheeks. “I’m gay.” 

. . . Jack has got to stop accidentally forcing people to out themselves in practice rooms by mistakenly assuming they’re being homophobic. “Oh,” says Jack. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you were being homophobic. Fuck, I did the same thing to A—a friend last year, too.” He only realizes at the last minute that he should probably not out the rest of the Bi Five to Eric. Like, he’s pretty sure that they’re all generally out and don’t mind people knowing, but he’s not sure enough that he should act on that impression. 

“I get it, though,” says Eric, sniffling and wiping his cheeks. “You have to assume the worst of people or you’ll just be caught off-guard when something happens.” 

“Eric, did something—” 

Before Jack can finish the question, Eric interrupts again: “I’ve never come out to anyone before. I’ve never said that I’m gay out loud to _myself_ before.” 

“Oh, bud . . . ,” says Jack before he can stop himself. 

Eric shakes his head and stands up. “It’s fine.” 

Jack gives a closed-lipped smile. “I don’t think it is, but you don’t have to tell me. Are you good to keep singing?”

Eric takes a deep breath and nods. 

“Okay, so, come here and touch my forehead,” says Jack. 

Eric takes the two steps toward him and puts his hand on Jack’s forehead. Jack sings a few notes and then asks, “Can you feel a buzzing?”

“Yeah,” says Eric. 

“Okay,” says Jack. “Now I’m going to darken my tone and I want you to tell me if you feel the difference.” 

Eric nods. 

Jack takes a deep breath, mentally shifts into choir mode instead of SMH mode, and sings a phrase. 

“Oh!” says Eric. 

“You feel the difference?” Jack asks. 

“Yeah,” Eric replies. “There was way less resonance in your forehead this time.” 

“Yeah,” says Jack. “Exactly. That’s because the resonance is in my chest when I sing with a dark tone. Now, do you think you can copy that shift?”

“I’ll try,” says Eric. 

He doesn’t quite get it, and eventually his voice gets tired and Jack has to end the rehearsal, but he’s part of the way there. 

Jack keeps rehearsing with Eric privately every Tuesday, keeps running SMH rehearsals on Thursday nights, and keeps bugging Dr. Ellerbee about ways to help Eric figure out how to sing differently on Fridays. The fact that all of these things become routine helps Jack’s anxiety, as does the fact that Eric’s making progress, even if it is sometimes slow. At one point Dr. Ellerbee recommends that Jack ask Eric to clamp a pencil between his molars so that he can’t make his mouth tall when he sings. Eric sputters out, “You want me to do _what_?” when Jack mentions it, but Jack offers to go first and demonstrate, and eventually Eric gives in, and it does indeed help. Meanwhile, Lardo reports that Oliver and Pacer are doing well at mini-rehearsals, following along well with Justin and Adam, and their progress is showing in SMH rehearsals as well. 

Justin and Adam get in the habit of throwing a rager every few weeks, which Jack honestly hadn’t even thought of when he’d proposed the idea of a house, and he’s not a huge fan, so he tends to hide in his room on nights when parties are happening. The one good thing he’s able to glean from gossip is that the first-years from SMH are attending the parties and having a good time and getting to know the rest of the group—Pacer and Oliver sticking with Justin and Adam while Eric sticks with Shitty, it seems, and Lardo rotating between those two groups and also making excursions to see their art friends and crush everyone at beer pong. Jack is glad that the first-years are bonding with the older members of SMH, even if he does wish that whole process involved less alcohol and less noise and less mess in his house. 

Jack also wishes he saw a bit more of Shitty, if he’s honest with himself. He spent his first three semesters at Samwell hanging out with Shitty every chance he got—which really wasn’t super often, considering all the theoretical opportunities there are for hanging out on a residential campus, but Jack is a serious student and he’s double-majoring, so he’s never had a ton of spare time—but last spring Shitty started having other plans more and more often, plans that usually seemed to involve Lardo. And Jack is happy for them. He _is_. It’s just an adjustment, no longer being Shitty’s number one person anymore. And he’d thought that living in the same house as Shitty would mean more spontaneous interactions, and it does, a little, but it also means that Shitty doesn’t have a roommate and can therefore hang out with Lardo whenever the two of them can make time. Which is another aspect of the house that Jack hadn’t thought through. 

But SMH is improving, and his classes are good even if they do assign way too much homework, and living with his friends is more good than bad even if he has to help clean up after parties he doesn’t attend. So he can’t complain. He knows that. He’s been in bad enough situations in the past—especially when he was facing down the draft—to appreciate that things are going pretty well right now. He has most of what he wants and his eighteen-year-old self would be so surprised and happy if he could see his life now. 

In early November, SMH has a near-flawless rehearsal. Nothing’s solid yet, and nobody has anything memorized, but they’re sounding good. Eric is blending; Pacer and Oliver are on tempo and don’t lose their place in the music even once. Jack is elated. He tells everyone that they’re doing great at the end of rehearsal and high-fives them on their way out. Once everyone has left the practice room, Jack shuts off the lights and then hustles to catch up with Eric, who was one of the last people to leave. 

“Eric. Hey, Eric,” says Jack, coming up behind him. 

“Jack?” says Eric, turning to face him. “Did I screw something up? You said rehearsal was good—was it not actually good?”

“No, it was great,” says Jack. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve been doing really well in our private rehearsals the past couple weeks, and I wanted to see how tonight went before I made a final decision, but I’m pretty sure we don’t need to keep meeting up on Tuesdays to practice. You’ve got a good handle on what we’re doing at this point. Obviously you still need to keep practicing on your own outside of rehearsal and remembering the techniques we’ve been working on, and I’m still down to help if you get stuck with something, especially since we’re on the same part, but you’re a good musician and I’m not concerned. So yeah, keep up the good work, text me if you have questions, and I won’t see you on Tuesday.” 

“Wow, Jack, really?” says Eric, eyes somehow (impossibly) even bigger than usual. 

“Definitely,” says Jack. “You’re a member of SMH for a reason, Eric. You’re a good musician, and now you get what we’re doing.” Jack smiles at him. “I’m proud of you.” 

“Thanks!” Eric replies. “That means a lot.” 

Jack enjoys Thanksgiving break even though it’s not Canadian Thanksgiving—it’s Hanukkah instead, and even if it weren’t he’d still be glad to get a few days off from school and to see his parents again. He’s put a lot of effort over the past several years into improving his relationship with his parents, and it’s gotten to the point where he really enjoys spending time with them. This past summer was the first time he didn’t spend the summer living with them, and he’s missed them more than he’s admitted to himself. So he soaks in their presence and makes latkes and messes around on the piano while singing with his mom and plays a little one-on-one shinny with his dad. (He’s pretty amazed by the fact that he can now lace up skates and set foot on an ice rink without having a panic attack. Time and therapy have done more for him than he’d dared hope a few years ago.) 

When he gets back to campus, it’s a push toward the SMH winter concert, and finals, and also Winter Screw for some awful reason. Jack has avoided going to Winter Screw for the past two years—you’re supposed to be set up by your roommates, but Jack has lived in single dorms, thus dodging that particular bullet easily—but this year Justin and Adam have decided that sharing a house with Jack makes them his roommates and gives them the right to set Jack up with a date. Shitty takes Jack aside at one point and says he’ll kick Justin and Adam’s asses if Jack really doesn’t want to go to Screw, but Jack sighs and says it’s fine. Screw is the night after SMH’s concert, so he won’t have much to worry about other than classes and he might be in the mood to blow off steam. Which—he’s _not_ going to get drunk and he’s _not_ going to get high, so maybe Screw won’t be a good way to blow off steam after all, but he’s not in the mood to fight Justin and Adam or to sic Shitty on them, so he goes along with it. They bug him about his type until he finally says, “Blondes,” and then they come to him a few hours later with the news that they’ve arranged for him to attend Screw with tennis captain Camilla Collins. Jack has never met her, but her Facebook pictures are decently attractive, and it’s just one dance, anyway. It’ll be fine. 

And then Jack hears that Justin and Adam have decided to set Eric up with a date for Winter Screw, despite the fact that Eric has roommates. And specifically, Jack hears that they’re trying to set him up with a _girl_. 

Jack nearly outs Eric by accident when he hears Justin and Adam wondering aloud about what kind of girl Eric might want to attend Screw with. Then he realizes that, if Eric isn’t out to Justin and Adam yet, he might not want to be out to them, and he wisely shuts his mouth. 

Rather than saying anything to Justin and Adam, Jack gets out his phone and texts Eric as he heads to his room: _I just overheard Justin and Adam talking about finding you a date to Winter Screw. It sounds like they don’t know you’re gay. Do you want me to tell them to knock it off?_

Eric: _i should come out to them, shouldn’t i? i mean, that’s why I picked samwell. so i could be out._

Jack: _You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for. I really can just tell them to knock it off._

Eric: _do you think they’d be cool about it? if i told them?_

Jack: _Definitely. I’m out to them, and they’re good with Lardo’s pronouns._

Eric: _are you all at your house right now?_

Jack: _Justin and Adam and I are._

Eric: _ok i’ll be over in 5._

Even from his room, Jack hears when Eric shows up at the house because Justin and Adam both yell enthusiastically and start grilling him loudly about his type. Jack doesn’t hear Eric’s replies, but a few minutes later there’s a knock at his door. 

When Jack opens his door, he sees Eric standing there, head hanging a bit as his hands twist. “Eric! Is something wrong?” Jack asks. 

“Can I come in?” Eric asks instead of answering the question. 

“Sure,” says Jack, stepping aside to let Eric enter. 

Eric shuts the door on his way in, glances over his shoulder, and then says quietly, “I chickened out.” 

Jack puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, bud. I really do know that Justin and Adam will be cool with you being gay, but I have an anxiety disorder and I understand that sometimes we get scared of things even when there’s no reason to be scared of them.” 

“You have an anxiety disorder?” Eric asks, and then he claps a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. You don’t have to answer that.” 

Jack shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve gotten used to people googling me.” 

Eric’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re googleable? Your _anxiety_ is googleable?” 

Jack chuckles. “Wow. You really haven’t. Euh, yeah. My dad played professional hockey for a long time, and my mom had a career as an actress. My family’s kind of famous. Euh, not to brag. I almost played professional hockey, too, but I overdosed on anxiety medication the night before the draft. Then I went to rehab, and when I got out I couldn’t bear to touch my hockey skates, and my therapist told me I needed a new hobby, so I tried a few things and singing was the one that stuck. I’m doing a lot better now, obviously, and I don’t want you to, like, worry about me. But yes, I have anxiety, and that’s a thing you can find out from Google.” 

Eric is gaping at him. 

“ . . . Eric? Are you okay?” 

Eric nods. “Yeah. Sorry. I just don’t think I’ve known a famous person before.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I told you when I thought you were weirded out by me being bi: we’re just like you.” 

Eric makes a face. “I don’t know that you are. You’re so brave, and so good at singing, and so good at _school_ , and just so . . . put together all the time.” 

Jack does more than chuckle this time—he cracks up. When he can speak around the laughter, he says, “Eric, what part of ‘I overdosed on anxiety medication’ do you not understand? I promise you I am _not_ put together all the time. I’m just multiple years older than you and have had a good support system as I’ve figured things out since I was your age.” 

Eric sighs. “Okay, okay. And I suppose you do dress like you’re going to rob a Burger King.” 

Jack sputters. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Eric just grins. “You heard me.” 

Jack shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and then says, “Are you feeling better now?” 

Eric’s smile softens. “Yeah, I am. Thanks.” 

“No problem,” says Jack. “Do you want to come out to Justin and Adam now, or do you want me to tell them to stop trying to set you up, or something else?”

Eric takes a deep breath. “I think I can come out to them. Can you come downstairs with me, though?”

“For sure,” says Jack. 

When Eric and Jack reach the kitchen, Justin and Adam immediately look up from Justin’s phone, and Adam says, “So, Eric, have you made a decision?”

“You’d better not have let Jack set you up, bro,” Justin adds. 

“I didn’t,” Eric says. Then he glances at Jack, squares his shoulder, and says, “Jack would probably do a better job of it than y’all have been doing, though, considering Jack knows that I’m gay.” 

“Oh,” says Justin. 

“Right on, man!” cheers Adam. “I’m bi.” 

“So am I,” Justin adds.

Eric turns to Jack. “Did you know about this?”

Jack just smiles. “Told you they’d be cool.” 

“Here I was freaking out—” Eric starts. 

Jack holds up a hand to cut Eric off. “Nope. I wasn’t sure what they’d be comfortable telling you. I wasn’t going to out them to you any more than I was going to out you to them. It’s, like, one of the first rules of knowing queer people.”

Eric slumps. “Oh. I suppose that makes sense.” He picks at the hem of his sweater. “Why don’t I know basic things about my own community?” he asks forlornly.

“I’m guessing it’s because you grew up in a context where you weren’t very exposed to the queer community,” says Jack. “That’s not your fault.” 

“Well, step one is you need to watch _Will and Grace_ ,” says Adam. 

Justin puts his hands on his hips. “Bro, Eric didn’t ask you to solve his problems, and even if he did, not everything can be solved with a sitcom.” 

“Name one thing that can’t be solved with a sitcom!” Adam returns. 

“Cancer! War! Racism!” Justin replies, and he’s not _yelling_ , but that’s not what Jack would call an _inside voice_ , either. 

“They’ll be at it for a while,” Jack whispers to Eric. “I don’t think they’ll notice if we escape to my room.” 

Jack and Eric tiptoe out of the kitchen and up the stairs back to Jack’s room. After Eric shuts the door, Jack flops down on his bed and says, “I’m sure they’ll be back to trying to set you up tomorrow, but when you get Adam going about sitcoms he can talk for literal hours.” 

“What’s _Will and Grace_?” Eric asks. 

“Probably a sitcom, but beyond that, no idea. How did it feel, coming out to them?”

“Good! Fine!” says Eric. “I guess it’s just scary in the abstract.” 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Jack says carefully, “but I am wondering if anything happened to make you so scared of coming out.” 

Eric sighs, takes a seat in Jack’s desk chair, and stares at the ceiling. “Some older boys locked me in a utility closet overnight when I was in seventh grade.” 

“Fuck,” says Jack fervently. 

Eric shrugs. He’s smiling, though it doesn’t look like a happy smile. “I liked baking and singing. What were they supposed to think?”

“That you were a human being—and a _kid_ —who deserved respect and care and compassion.” 

Eric sticks his face in his hands and lets out a sob. Shit. 

Jack comes and kneels in front of the chair where Eric’s sitting. “Bud? Did I say something wrong?”

Eric just cries for a bit, but when he can speak he says, “I think you just said something _right_.” 

“I’m confused.” 

“I always thought it was my fault,” Eric says. “My family moved after the thing with the closet, but we never talked about it. My parents never acknowledged that it happened at all. So I figured it was my fault. And I just—you said—” 

“Can I hug you?” Jack asks as Eric dissolves into sobs once more. 

Eric nods hard, so Jack leans forward and wraps his arms around Eric. Everything about the angle is awkward, but Eric hugs Jack back and sticks his wet face into Jack’s shoulder, so Jack is pretty sure he’s doing the right thing. 

“Shh, shh,” says Jack. “It wasn’t your fault, bud. That sounds awful and it wasn’t your fault.” 

It takes a while, but finally Eric finishes crying and pulls back, wiping his face off with his hands. “Sorry.” 

“Hey, no,” says Jack gently, settling back onto his heels. “You have nothing to apologize for. That’s an awful thing to have happen to you, and to think was your fault for that long, and I’m so sorry you haven’t been able to talk about it until now. You’re allowed to have big feelings about this.” 

Eric looks at his lap. “Thanks.” 

“Do you want to talk about it more?” Jack asks. “Or you can leave, or we could—I don’t know, play a card game or watch a documentary or something.” 

Eric looks at him quizzically. “Jack Zimmermann plays card games?”

Jack frowns. “As I keep reminding you, I’m human. In fact, I’m practically a regular college student.” 

Eric rolls his eyes. “You work harder than God. Everyone knows that.” 

“First of all, no I don’t. Secondly, a whole lot more people know about the partying I did as a teenager than know about the work I’ve put into academics for the past two and a half years. And third, even if I did work harder than God, I’d still need breaks every now and then, because I’m human and everyone needs breaks, and personally I enjoy playing cards and watching documentaries as a way to relax. And I used to do that with Shitty but he’s been busy being Lardo’s boyfriend lately.” 

“Oh,” says Eric. 

They wind up playing Kings in the Corner on Jack’s floor (someday Jack wants to teach his friends to play bridge, but he’s not under the impression that’ll be possible anytime soon, especially given the way his housemates banned Settlers of Catan). Eric giggles and shouts and has absolutely zero poker face, but his frown of concentration when he’s thinking is utterly adorable, which is something Jack hadn’t thought about Eric prior to now. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it, and he finds himself thinking about the way he told Justin and Adam that his type is blondes. 

Fuck. 

Jack works on acting normally until Eric leaves and then has to forcibly restrain himself from screaming into a pillow. The release would be nice, but SMH’s winter concert is coming up in a week and a half, and he needs his voice to be in good shape. He kind of wants to talk to someone, but all his friends are also friends with Eric, and he’ll probably tell his parents eventually if these feelings metastasize into a full-blown crush, but he’s not going to tell them this early in the game. So instead he gets out his homework and tries to focus. 

The concert the following Friday is a success. Jack just has one solo, in “The House of the Rising Sun.” Jack has never known how to seem fair while assigning solos as president. He kind of feels like he should hold auditions for each solo, but he knows everyone’s voices so well since there’s only ten of them in the group, so mostly he can just assign them. He tries not to take too many for himself, which this semester meant giving three to Adam since he has the most faith in Adam’s voice out of anyone in the group, especially once he excludes himself from the running. He didn’t give solos to any of the first-years, but they all seemed fine with that. In any event, the concert goes well, and then Jack hangs around Lardo afterward in an attempt to ward off people who might misgender them—he doesn’t want a repeat of last winter, when he found them crying outside the music building after the concert because everyone was telling them they beatboxed well “for a girl.” 

Jack skips the party that follows the concert, both because he always skips parties and because going to Winter Screw the night after the SMH concert is already going to drain him socially more than anything has in a long time. He doesn’t need to throw a party into the mix, too (and spend the night trying not look at Eric, because these feelings are definitely becoming a crush, fuck). The next night is Winter Screw, and Jack hooks up with Camilla half because he’s hoping it’ll take his mind off of Eric (who was dancing with some rugby guy) and half because he needs to get away from the loud mass of people but doesn’t want to be so rude as to ditch Camilla there. He succeeds at escaping the mass of people but utterly fails at forgetting Eric. 

After the concert, there are no more SMH rehearsals for the rest of the semester, and everyone buckles down to work on finals. Jack hopes that this will help him think less about Eric, but unfortunately he gave Eric a house key back in September so he’d stop complaining about how terrible the student kitchens are and just use Jack’s better kitchen instead, and it seems that finals mean that all Eric wants to do is bake, so every time Jack ventures downstairs Eric is pulling a pie out of the oven. For a while, Jack just focuses on his own finals, but at last he has a conversation with Eric about how his studying is coming and realizes Eric is in serious danger of failing one of his classes, so he takes Eric’s house key away and instructs his housemates not to let Eric in until Wednesday afternoon. 

Winter break is another nice opportunity for Jack to see his parents. He plays shinny and watches ESPN with his dad, and it barely even hurts to watch the Las Vegas Aces. He also gets out the book of duets from musicals that his mother bought him a couple years ago—which he’s been keeping at school in order to sing with Adam on occasion, or to facilitate Adam singing with Justin or Lardo—and sings through it with his mom. It’s during their second time in the music room singing through the book, sharing the piano bench, when Jack gets up the courage to say, “I think I have a crush on someone.” 

“Oh, Jack!” says his mother. “Thank you for telling me. Do you want to tell me about them?” 

Jack has been working on being more open with his parents since the overdose, so this isn’t the first time he’s mentioned having a crush—there was Kate in his Nineteenth-Century America class last spring, and Samantha in his Music History class before that—but this will be the first time Jack has talked to his parents about liking a guy since Kent. And Jack knows they’re both cool with him being bi—he hadn’t thought they were, back when he was in juniors, but the three of them have since had a lot of conversations about that time, and Jack has learned that their objections were to Jack being with _Kent in particular_ , not _a guy in general_ —but it’s still easier to talk to his mom first about this stuff. He’ll talk to his dad soon and it’ll be fine, but he just feels safer doing this one parent at a time and starting with his mother. 

Jack says, “Yeah. It’s Eric.” 

Realization dawns on his mother’s face. “Oh, the first-year baritone you were helping fit into SMH?”

Jack smiles, glad (if a little embarrassed) that his mother remembers the people he’s talked about on their phone calls. “Yep. I’d say we’re pretty close friends at this point, but I’m worried that he’s in kind of a vulnerable place right now, being so young and still pretty new at Samwell and all that.” 

“Hmm,” says his mother. “That is a good thing to be aware of, as is your place as president of SMH. If you ask him out, you’re going to need to make it really clear that he can say no and still have a place in the group, and that you’ll do your best not to make things awkward and you’re never going to pressure him. You need to be prepared for him to say no for those reasons, or because he’s not into guys. But I think, if you’re careful about it, you could ask him out.” 

“Thanks, Maman,” says Jack. “I might.”

When Jack arrives back at Samwell, however—having had a similar conversation with his father—he finds out that Eric is dating the rugby guy from Winter Screw. He learns this not from Eric, but from Justin and Adam, who are gossipping in the living room the first afternoon of classes for spring semester. Jack wonders if this just started since everyone got back to campus—if he could have asked Eric out yesterday right after his flight got in, rather than waiting to catch him after rehearsal as had been his plan—or if Eric and Rugby Guy started dating during or right after Winter Screw, before break. Jack doesn’t know how to ask, and he thinks he probably shouldn’t, anyway. He doesn’t need to beat himself up about what-ifs. 

Eric seems happier this semester than he did last semester, and he talks about Rugby Guy—whose name turns out to be Elias—a lot. “Elias and I are going to . . .” and “Elias was just telling me . . .” become common refrains from him, and he’s nearly always smiling with a soft and genuine brightness when he says them. And Jack knows this not because Eric is talking at rehearsals but because Eric is also spending a substantial amount of time with _him_. Or at least, it feels substantial to Jack. And this could just be because Jack has started trying to do his homework in the kitchen rather than his room when Eric’s around—key word being _trying_ because it’s very difficult to get anything done with Eric present and baking and being, well, distracting. Because Jack is most definitely not getting over his feelings, or even really trying to. He could try to avoid Eric outside of rehearsal, but he thinks that would make Eric worried and himself lonely, so he doesn’t try. Instead, he hangs out in the kitchen while Eric bakes, and the two of them play cards in Jack’s room sometimes when Eric’s waiting for a pie to come out of the oven, or even when they just have some time. And it’s nice. It’s so nice. Even if Eric tends to talk about Elias whenever they hang out. Jack can handle it. He _can_. 

And then one day in early March Eric knocks on the door to Jack’s room. It’s a Wednesday night, which Eric never spends with Jack because he always spends Wednesday nights with Elias, so Jack is expecting Shitty or Justin or Adam or John when he answers the knock. Instead, Eric is standing on Jack’s threshold, blinking hard against what are probably tears. 

Jack fights the impulse to hug Eric before they’ve established what’s going on and what Eric wants. Instead, he says, “Eric! Are you all right?”

Eric shrugs. “Are you busy? I can leave you alone if you have too much homework or whatever.” 

Jack glances briefly over his shoulder at his laptop, which is open to a half-written paper. With the amount of time he’s been spending in the kitchen lately, he’s not as ahead on schoolwork as he usually tries to be, but he’s also definitely not _behind_. He can spare an hour or two. “Homework can wait. Do you want to come in?”

“If you don’t mind,” Eric mutters. 

“Why would I mind?” Jack asks as he takes a few steps back to let Eric enter. “You’re one of my best friends.” 

“I’m not—I don’t know, a burden? Too much to handle?” Eric asks. 

“Bud, you could never be a burden. I’m definitely an introvert and I can imagine you being too much if we spent several days together without any breaks, but that wouldn’t mean you were a burden; it would just mean I needed a little alone time. Where is this coming from?”

Eric looks at his feet. “Elias dumped me,” he whispers. 

“Oh, bud,” says Jack. “Can I hug you?”

Eric collapses into Jack’s arms, sniffing hard. Jack allows himself to rub Eric’s back a bit, which might be some sort of final straw, because the next thing Jack knows he has an armful of sobbing Southerner. He’s been wanting prolonged contact with Eric for quite a while, and he’s been wishing Eric and Elias would break up, but this isn’t worth it—he’d much rather Eric were happy with Elias than sobbing in Jack’s arms. “I’m so sorry,” Jack murmurs into Eric’s hair. “I’m so sorry, bud.” 

After a couple of minutes, Eric pulls himself under control and draws back, wiping his face. Jack grabs a tissue from the box on his desk and hands it to Eric, who mutters sheepishly, “Thanks.” 

Jack takes a seat on his bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Eric sighs, throws the used tissue in Jack’s garbage can, and sits down in the desk chair. “We were at Annie’s, and he told me that dating me was too much for him and he couldn’t do it anymore. He said the past four guys he’s dated have all been in their first relationship with a guy, and teaching each of us how to date a guy was becoming more of a burden than he could handle. He said it wasn’t a problem with me specifically but just a bad pattern he’d gotten himself into, but like, how am I supposed to take any of that? I thought tonight was just going to be a regular date, and now suddenly I’m going through my first breakup.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Jack. “That really sucks, especially since you couldn’t see it coming.” 

“I should’ve seen it coming, though, shouldn’t I?” Eric asks. “I mean, I didn’t even realize he was unhappy—what kind of boyfriend was I?”

“Okay, first of all,” says Jack, “it was your first relationship. No one does it perfectly their first time. That doesn’t make you a horrible person or a bad boyfriend or anything. And secondly, people can feel differently from one day to the next, and they can also actively hide how they feel. No one around me knew how anxious I was leading up to my overdose, because I didn’t let them find out. If Elias was getting tired of dating boys who hadn’t dated boys before, but he also liked you and wanted to keep dating you, he could have hidden one of those feelings and tried to focus on the other.” 

“Maybe,” says Eric dubiously. “I still feel like I failed.” 

“I’m not going to tell you not to feel that way,” Jack says, “because your feelings are valid and they’re going to do what they’re going to do. But I can say that _I_ don’t think you’ve failed at anything. The reason Elias broke up with you was completely beyond your control. You didn’t mess anything up.” 

“But what if no one ever wants to be with me again?” Eric asks. 

From his vantage point on the other side of 20, Jack can hear the naivete in the question, but he remembers asking the same thing at Eric’s age when things ended with Kent. “I promise other people will want to be with you,” he says. “You’re only 18. You’re going to meet so many more people over the course of your life. And you never know—there could be someone who wants to be with you right now but hasn’t said anything because you were dating Elias.” 

Eric rolls his wet eyes. “Yeah, right.” 

Jack shrugs. “Believe what you want. But please, know that you’re worthy of affection.” 

“Thanks,” says Eric. “I’m not sure I believe you, but I do believe that you mean what you’re saying, if that makes sense.” 

Jack nods. “You’re wonderful and you deserve good things, and yes, what you’re saying makes sense.” 

Eric looks at his lap, and Jack can’t tell in the lamplight if he’s blushing or not. “Thanks.” It’s quiet for a few moments and then Eric says, “Well, I think I want to go bake something.” 

“Do you want company?” Jack asks. 

“Do you want to come downstairs and do your homework in the kitchen? I’ll try not to bother you—I know you weren’t counting on me taking up your time tonight.” 

“Eric, you’re not ‘taking up my time.’ You’re going through a breakup and you deserve the support of your friends. Yes, I can come downstairs and do my homework in the kitchen.” 

In the kitchen, Eric puts earbuds in like he sometimes does when Jack is actually trying to study rather than just trying to soak in his presence. Jack is decent at academic writing, and he’s got a solid outline for this paper, complete with all the quotes and citations he’s planning on using, so he’s able to type out three more pages of his paper without all that much effort as Eric whips up a pie. After putting the pie in the oven, Eric comes over and sits down next to Jack at the kitchen island. 

“I didn’t love him,” Eric says quietly, taking his earbuds out. “We hadn’t said that yet and I never got there. But I miss him already, anyway.” 

“Of course you do, bud,” says Jack. “Do you want to talk more about it, or play Kings in the Corner, or something else?”

“Jack, I’m sure you have homework—” 

“It’ll keep,” Jack interrupts. “I’ve done everything I need to for tomorrow.” 

“How,” says Eric flatly. 

“I work ahead?” says Jack. 

“I don’t understand you,” Eric replies. “But sure, if you’re up for it, let’s play Kings in the Corner while the pie bakes.” 

The next afternoon, when Jack gets back from classes, he finds John in an otherwise empty kitchen, eating a slice of the pie Eric made last night. “Jack!” John calls before Jack can head up the stairs. “I think we should add one more piece to our spring repertoire.” 

“Okay . . . ,” says Jack. “Sell me on it.” 

“It’s this gorgeous piece by an African American woman named Ysaÿe M. Barnwell, but I first heard it when Cantus came to my high school and performed for all the choir students. Cantus is the tenor-bass a cappella group that Eric mentioned knowing at his audition. They’re pretty choral, and this song is definitely not a pop song, but it’s beautiful and I think Eric would do an amazing job at the solo.” 

“Do you have sheet music?” Jack asks. 

“Yep,” John says, holding up a stack of paper. 

Jack walks around the kitchen island to stand behind John and look over his shoulder. “Play me a recording while I look at the sheet music.” 

John brings up YouTube on his phone and plays a video. 

Jack has to sit down 30 seconds in. This isn’t just gorgeous, though that word definitely applies—it’s also heart-wrenching to the point where Jack wants to cry. The lyrics alone nearly bring him to his knees, and then there’s the melody, the harmonies, the richness of the voices blending together. Hot damn. This might be the best song Jack’s ever heard. 

“Okay, yes, we’re doing this,” Jack says when the video is over. His voice is a little thick. “We’ll introduce it at rehearsal tonight. Lardo can keep the beat instead of the egg shaker Cantus uses, and you’re right—Eric should do the solo.” 

“Told you, bro,” says John. 

In rehearsal, John hands out the sheet music after warmups as Jack says, “John brought me this song today, and I think it’ll make a great closer to our spring concert. Lardo, I’m sorry—your part is pretty boring, since this is more choral than pop. Eric, how would you feel about being the soloist?”

Eric’s eyebrows fly up. “Me? But— _me_?”

“Yeah,” says Jack. “This is your kind of music, and it’s definitely a baritone solo.” 

“Oh, wow!”

“Is that a yes?”

Eric nods hard. “Definitely.” 

John plays the video for everyone, since most of the group has never heard the song before, and it moves Jack just as much now as it did earlier in the kitchen, but he holds it together because he’s president of SMH and he needs to be able to continue to use his voice for the rest of rehearsal, which means not getting choked up. Everyone seems to like the song, which is good. 

Spring semester rolls on. Jack reads textbooks and writes papers and practices his voice repertoire and his SMH pieces and leads rehearsals and sits in the kitchen watching Eric bake. Spring break is a lot like winter break, except with homework, and it’s over both too quickly (Jack barely has time to settle in and hang out with his parents) and not quickly enough (Jack misses Eric like he’s rarely missed anyone). 

One Tuesday in mid-April, Jack finishes a paper a little faster than he thought he could and realizes that he has a couple hours to spare. He’s already practiced all his voice rep and done all his readings. He goes downstairs in search of company—in search of Eric, first and foremost, if he’s honest, but he’ll take a jam session with Adam or a card game with Shitty or a Canadian commiseration session with Justin if that’s what’s possible instead. At the bottom of the stairs, he nearly runs into Eric, who’s just walking through the door. 

“Eric!” 

“Jack, hi! Were you heading out?”

“No, I just finished my homework and I was looking for company.” 

“Well, here I am, if you think I’ll do for company.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Of course you’ll do for company. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re one of my best friends?”

“Goodness, Jack, you sure know how to make a boy blush. So what’ll it be? Cards? One of your World War II documentaries?” 

“Actually, could you teach me how to bake a pie?”

Eric gasps. “‘Could I teach him how to bake a pie?’ he asks,” Eric says fondly. “Well, of course, sugar!” 

Jack suddenly wonders what he’s gotten himself into, and also whether he’ll be able to survive an entire hour (or however long this takes—Eric bakes fast, but that’s when he’s not trying to teach Jack) of being on the receiving end of Eric’s pet names. “Fair warning: I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” he says, following Eric into the room in question. 

“I’m sure that ain’t true,” says Eric, rolling up his sleeves. “And besides, you haven’t had me for a teacher before.” 

“True,” Jack concedes. He and Eric wash their hands and then Eric pulls ingredients out of the cupboards and tells Jack what to get out of the fridge (butter, eggs, lemon juice, and apples). 

“Now, if you were just going to be my sous chef, I’d have you peel, core, and cut up the apples while I made the crust, and I’d probably blather at you the entire time, but then you wouldn’t learn how to make a pie crust, so instead I’m going to tell you how to do each step of the crust and help you if you get stuck, and I’ll work on the apples since I could do those in my sleep.” 

“You don’t blather,” Jack protests. “I like listening to you talk.” 

“That’s sweet, sugar,” says Eric, “and I’m glad you like listening to me, but we both know I talk too much.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“Oh my goodness, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric exclaims, “just let me teach you how to make a pie!” 

“All right, all right,” Jack relents, filing _improve Eric’s self-esteem_ away as a task for later. 

Eric has Jack mix the dry ingredients first and then tells him to add butter and then an egg. Mixing everything is hard work for Jack’s arms, and he can feel how long it’s been since he worked out regularly (he still runs, but that doesn’t do much for his arm strength). He gains a newfound appreciation for Eric’s muscles as he works the dough. Once the dough is made, Eric instructs him to shape it into a disk and put it in the refrigerator. Then it’s time to work with the apples. Jack has known for months now that you don’t just cut apples up and stick them inside a pie if you want the pie to taste good—it’s certainly not a thing he’d known before Eric, but he’s been hanging around the kitchen all semester—so he’s not surprised when Eric instructs him to make a reduction of butter and lemon juice with some spices mixed in, but it does impress him a little that Eric knows all the relevant measurements by heart. When he comments on that, Eric just laughs and says, “I’ve been baking since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. It’d be more surprising if I still needed a cookbook, honestly.” 

There’s a bit of waiting around between the apples being ready and the dough being cold enough, and Jack nearly says something—about his feelings, about the way Eric’s confidence in the kitchen is jaw-droppingly attractive, about everything he’s been trying not to say since early December—but Eric is happy and joking around and Jack doesn’t want to ruin the moment in case telling Eric about all this makes things suddenly awkward. 

Then it’s time to roll out the dough, and Eric returns to his role as Baking Expert and comes behind Jack to adjust his grip on the rolling pin and demonstrate the correct amount of pressure to apply. Jack wants to melt into the contact with Eric, but that would be bad, so he holds himself very still, only moving his arms and only at Eric’s instruction. 

This is unfortunately not the right move either, apparently. Eric steps back after just a few seconds and mutters, “Sorry.” 

When Jack turns around, he sees that Eric’s looking at the floor, and his chest tightens. What has he done? “Eric, what? You have nothing to apologize for, I promise.” 

“No, I shouldn’t have gotten in your space like that,” says Eric, still not meeting Jack’s eyes. “I—I know you’re bi and you’re not homophobic, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to let my feelings spill over like that and just take what I want when it’s not something you want to give.” 

Hope swells in Jack’s chest, but he can’t address it quite yet. “Okay, first of all, you’re teaching me to bake. There was a purpose to the way you were touching me and there was nothing inappropriate about it, not given that we’re friends and peers and I had a heads-up that that’s what you were going to do. If I didn’t want you to touch me, I’m definitely comfortable enough with you that I would have just told you. I didn’t tell you not to touch me because that was totally okay.” 

“But you went stiff,” says Eric. 

“That’s because of the second thing,” Jack says. “Because secondly, if I’m understanding you correctly when you mention ‘feelings,’ I can assure you that they’re completely mutual. And I figured that melting into your touch would not necessarily go over well.” 

“You—Jack—what?”

“Eric, I’ve had feelings for you for months. Since right before Winter Screw. Or, well. Probably earlier, but the week before the dance is when I realized it. And I want to make it clear that we don’t have to do anything. You can say no. I know doing anything would be a risk given that we’re in SMH together, and as president of SMH it’s important to me that you know that your place in the group is secure regardless of what you say to me now or what happens between us going forward. Being your friend is so good, and I promise I won’t view it as some sort of consolation prize if you don’t want to be with me. But if you do want to be with me, I’d like to date you. If I may.” 

“Oh Lord, Jack,” says Eric, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “You’re serious?”

“Of course, Eric. But what do _you_ want?”

“You, of course,” says Eric, like it’s obvious. “I want to date you. I just—I didn’t think—you’re _famous_ , Jack. How could you want _me_?”

Jack laughs and rolls his eyes. “I’m not really famous anymore, and the thing I did that got the most press out of anything was overdosing, so even if fame generally conferred some sort of superiority on people, I don’t think it would in my case, and anyway I don’t think that’s how it works generally either. Like I keep telling you, we’re people just like you. And I happen to be a person who wants to date you.” 

Eric takes a deep breath, and Jack is braced for more self-deprecating bullshit, but what comes out instead is “Kiss me, then?”

Jack walks around the kitchen island and does. It’s an odd angle—Eric would be shorter than Jack anyway, but with Eric seated, even on one of the high stools at the kitchen island, the height gap is even larger—and it tastes like spiced apples, since Eric and Jack each snagged a few earlier, but it’s a good kiss nonetheless. Soft. Peaceful. Languid. 

“Well goodness, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric says when they finally pull apart. He sounds flustered. “You’re a man of many talents.” 

“Not sure pie-baking is one of them, though,” Jack replies. “Is the dough going to get too warm or something?”

“Oh Lord,” says Eric. “I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten about a pie before. Yes, we should finish rolling out the dough and put it back in the refrigerator sooner rather than later.” 

Once they’ve rolled out the dough, set it on wax paper, and stuck it in the refrigerator, Jack sets a timer for the ten minutes that the dough needs to chill, sets the oven to preheat at the temperature Eric specifies—“that’s not the temperature a recipe would tell you but your oven is temperamental”—and then gets back to kissing Eric. 

The timer goes off far too quickly for Jack’s liking—he wants to kiss Eric forever—but it doesn’t take all that long to put the dough in the pie tin, pile the apples into the tin next, add the other piece of dough on top of the apples, flute the edges, brush the top with egg, sprinkle it with sugar, pierce the dough to let the steam out, and return the whole thing to the refrigerator. 

“You’re not going to teach me to make a lattice?” Jack teases as he puts the pie crust over the top of the apples. 

“That takes longer,” Eric says. “So maybe I’ll teach you sometime when we haven’t just had our first kiss and I can actually keep my hands to myself.” 

“Oh, you think that’ll get easier as time goes on?”

“I should hope so, because otherwise I’m not sure how I’ll ever get through another rehearsal with you,” Eric replies. “Now that I’ve kissed you I just want to keep kissing you.”

Jack puts the almost-ready pie in the refrigerator and says, “Well, as soon as we put the pie in the oven, we can go up to my room. If you want.” 

“That sounds fantastic,” says Eric. 

They manage to talk for 15 minutes while the pie chills—Jack is a decently considerate housemate and knows none of his friends deserve to walk in on him and Eric making out in the kitchen, of all places—and then Jack moves the pie from the refrigerator to the oven and they both practically sprint upstairs. In Jack’s room, Jack beelines for the bed and sits down on the edge of it, but Eric hesitates after closing the door. 

“What’s the plan?” he asks, looking suddenly nervous. 

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, bud,” Jack says. “I mean, I do have limits and I’ll let you know if we reach them, but I’m guessing we’ll reach yours first and that’s completely okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

Eric nods, walks over to the bed, and sits next to Jack. “Would you just kiss me some more?” 

“Of course,” says Jack, leaning in to do just that. It’s leisurely and gentle, which at least on Jack’s end are qualities he’s using conscious effort to infuse into the experience. It’s not like he’s super experienced—he hasn’t been in an actual relationship since Parse, if that even counted, though he had a couple hookups in college prior to Camilla—but he’s never, ever taken things slow. He wants to, with Eric, though. He doesn’t want to rush in and then flame out quickly. He knows Eric is just 18, and there’s no telling where the future will take either of them, separately or together, but he thinks this could be good. He thinks they have a shot, maybe not at forever, but definitely at being Jack’s longest and best relationship yet. Which, again, isn’t a high bar, but still. He wants to let this grow and develop organically, and he wants to make sure Eric is comfortable every step of the way. 

So they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss, just sitting next to each other on the edge of Jack’s bed, hands wandering aimlessly down each other’s backs and into each other’s hair and down each other’s arms. It’s calm and lovely and maybe even loving, although it’s way too early for that word. 

Finally, the timer on Jack’s phone goes off and it’s time to go get the pie out of the oven. 

“How do you want to tell SMH about us?” Jack asks as he removes the pie from the oven. 

“Oh!” says Eric. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” 

“Shitty and Lardo announced it in person at rehearsal, but we could just drop it in the group chat if you’d rather,” Jack says. “It’d probably be best to tell them before anyone walks in on us kissing or whatever. I mean, if you’re comfortable with people knowing. We’re both out, so I figure—”

“Yes,” says Eric. “Do you mind if I put it in the group chat now?”

“Everyone who lives here is going to stampede to the kitchen if you do that,” Jack says. “Which is fine if that’s what you want, but if you don’t want to get mobbed then I suggest you wait until you’re back at your dorm.” 

“And leave you to deal with your housemates alone?”

Jack shrugs. “I’m boring. They won’t bug me all that much, even about this kind of news.” 

“You are _not_ boring, Jack Zimmermann.” 

“And _you_ don’t talk too much,” Jack replies, giving Eric a kiss on the nose. 

Eric crosses his arms. Jack mimics the motion and stares Eric down. After several long moments, Eric drops his arms and says, “Ugh, fine! You win, Mister Resting Bitch Face.” 

“What?” Jack squacks. 

“You heard me,” says Eric. Then he gets out his phone and says, “I’m going to text the group chat.” 

Jack’s phone buzzes a few seconds later. The message says, _Jack and I are dating!_ Following the exclamation point are several heart emojis that together form a rainbow. Jack’s heart swells a little at the sight. Although he came out to his friends last year, all three of his college hookups have been women. He’s not used to being _out_ -out, but the music world doesn’t care nearly as much as the hockey world did, and he’s pretty excited about dating a guy openly. Well, he’s pretty excited about dating _Eric_ and being able to be public about that fact—that someone as wonderful as Eric would have _him_. 

As Jack predicted, his housemates do indeed storm the kitchen demanding deets—Justin and Adam first, followed by Shitty and Lardo, who have been holed up in Shitty’s room, and finally John. Eric blushes the whole time and reiterates over and over that he and Jack have only kissed and there’s nothing more to tell. 

“Okay, fine,” Adam relents at last. He’s been the one pushing for deets the hardest. “But I want to hear all about it when you do get in each other’s pants.” 

Jack can tell he’s blushing hard, and he’s also glaring at Adam. Eric’s the one who speaks, though, which is probably for the best. “You mind yourself, Mister Birkholtz, or I’ll cut off your pie privileges.” 

Adam puts a hand over his chest and pretends to be scandalized. “You wouldn’t!” 

“Don’t try me,” Eric says. Jack isn’t sure if Eric’s trying to be intimidating or if he’s intentionally playing, but he definitely sounds more pleasant than anything else. 

Adam puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” 

“Good,” says Eric. “Now, I think this pie is cool enough to eat. Do all y’all want some?”

Everyone nods enthusiastically, and Jack helps Eric plate the slices. Somehow Eric makes cutting the pie into seven roughly equal pieces look easy. Everyone compliments Eric profusely on his baking, as usual, and then most of them retract their compliments and pretend to choke when Eric reveals that Jack helped make the pie. Eric just rolls his eyes fondly at the lot of them. “Y’all are impossible, you know that? And Jack here is a very fine baker.” 

“Only thanks to you,” Jack replies, and Eric goes up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

The month between getting together with Eric and SMH’s spring concert flies by. Jack spends a lot of time on schoolwork, and a lot of time practicing vocal rep, and spends a lot of time in the kitchen or up in his room with Eric. Jack has to work hard at paying attention while leading rehearsals, because Eric is _right there_ and kissing him is a thing that Jack is generally able to do now, but he’s the president of SMH and he’s going to honor the position. 

And then it’s the night of the spring concert, and Jack and his housemates all walk to the music building together. They’re all in button-downs, and Jack has to admit that his friends all clean up well, even Shitty with his mustache. They meet the rest of SMH in their usual rehearsal room, and—well, Eric cleans up even better than everybody else, and Jack kisses him hello quickly because he can’t help himself, and then he asks Adam to help with warmups. 

The concert goes well, especially the closer, with Eric nailing his first-ever SMH solo. The applause lasts for what feels like longer than usual when everything is done, and then it’s time to stand in the hall and greet the fans, which is Jack’s least-favorite part of performing. He stands behind Lardo for the first couple minutes, until they say, “Stop puppy-guarding me. Nobody’s misgendering me, and if they do I can handle it.”

“Euh, right,” says Jack, taking a step in Eric’s direction. 

“Hey,” says Lardo, catching Jack’s sleeve. “I appreciate the thought, okay?” 

“Okay,” says Jack. He and Lardo smile awkwardly at each other for a second, and then he walks the short distance to Eric’s side and puts a hand at the small of his back. “You killed it out there.” 

Eric beams at him. “It felt good. I’m glad you thought it sounded good, too.” Jack’s been working with Eric on his ability to take compliments over the past month, and he takes it as a victory that Eric doesn’t brush off the praise. 

The night after finals end, SMH takes over the roof of the music building, as is tradition. This year, Justin, Adam, Oliver, and Pacer make one little circle, while Shitty, Lardo, Jack, Eric, and John make another and the two seniors who aren’t John go off to the side. They stay up talking on the roof until the wee hours of the morning, Jack lending Eric his sweater when he notices Eric’s shivering violently, and then they stumble back to the house—including Lardo and Eric. Eric hasn’t stayed over before, but he does this time, and it’s the best goodbye Jack could have hoped for. 

Well, not _goodbye_. This is definitely—if Jack has any say in the matter—a _see you later_.

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to add notes last night, but I've been trying to give y'all the musical arrangements I've mentioned the characters singing, so [here is Face Vocal Band singing "House of the Rising Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cD9OUed-Tbo), [here is Cantus singing "Wanting Memories"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4FRbAbbtTU), and [here is the pie recipe I used when Bitty teaches Jack how to bake](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchen/apple-pie-recipe-2011423), because for some reason I've written over 40 Check Please fics and this is the first one to contain baking.


End file.
